


Constant

by Venivincere



Category: Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 19:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2479739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venivincere/pseuds/Venivincere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He comes out here because it's quiet. Nothing louder than a whicker & the occasional stamping hoof. He exhales all the tension between his shoulders into the inky black, lets the starlight irradiate him in cool, sterile splendor, and breathes in sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donnersun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donnersun/gifts), [tuesdaymidnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaymidnight/gifts).



> Written because there was discussion on Twitter with donnersun and tuesdaymidnight wherein Sebastian Stan and horses were mentioned at the same time, and that was a thought that absolutely had to be explored immediately and in porny detail. Thank you for letting me play in your sandbox.

He comes out here because it's quiet. Nothing louder than a whicker & the occasional stamping hoof. It's such a contrast with the set, all harried and hectic. But here, when he walks across the yard and slips into the barn, it's like he's taking the first deep breath of the day. He exhales all the tension between his shoulders into the inky black, lets the starlight irradiate him in cool, sterile splendor, and breathes in sleep.

He loves the barn. No one looks for him here. No one in the house full of his costars calls his name, makes him sit up and take note of whatever it is they're watching or playing in their sleepy down time. No TV, no music. Just the slow, sweet breath of the living barn and all the creatures in it.

He pulls down an old horse blanket from outside Becket's stall and swings it over his shoulder to the empty stall at the end. There's a new horse coming in tomorrow. Someone's laid straw, but there's nothing else there. He kicks it into a pile and lays the blanket on top of it. He swings himself down and starts to feel the coolness of the evening seep into his sweat-soaked skin. He can still feel the hard muscle of Chris's arms and legs where they pressed into his body; wrestling, he thinks, is something boys do that they never truly outgrow.

He catches his own scent, spicy, enticing, and it melds with the clean smell of horse. He lets his imagination take him, take him back to Romania, playing in the barn with his mother's horses, pretending to be the Marlborough Man. Somewhere in the vast, dark, dripping maelstrom of his memories, that became his ideal of a man; quintessential American, cowboy, horse, dust, sweat. Here in the quietude away from his costars, he lets the odors of horse and sweat comingle, and it ignites him.

He pulls an arm from behind his head and lets his hand drift down to the placket of his jeans. He presses down; something hot and hard and possibly fey pushes up at him, teasing. 'Here I am,' he thinks, as his fingers dip down beneath the denim, an exploration, a quest of discovery. 'Here I am.'

His stomach quivers in response to the quivering prize in its cotton-damp lair. Attack? More reunion, wild and joyful, a rare bit of rediscovery in the midst of discovering someone else: someone with a metal arm and a brittle mind. Nothing like his own supple, velvet depths. He pushes his foreskin down and lets the cool night bathe the head of his cock. It's like water lapping at the very edge of the shore of a vast, peaceful sea.

He turns his head and takes in a deep breath, heady with the scent of himself and horse, and his cock jumps in his fingers.He grips it tighter, reigning it in, riding it up and down, meeting it thrust for thrust. The sweat cooling on his body reignites. The quivering in his stomach oscillates out of control. He bucks and loses control of his ride. His lungs contract and "Oh!" shoots out, a quick, sharp bullet of surprise as he’s flung out of control and over the edge, mind filling with the infinity of orgasm and pants filling with yeasty come.

He floats for a time, out through the crack in the shutters into the infinity of stars in the inky black, aware of only the scent of himself, freshly rutted, spicy, yeasty male, and horse: sustaining, constant.

He drifts, and when he wakes he feels connected to himself in a way he hasn't for a long time. Perhaps since Romania, or maybe Vienna. He rises and shakes the dust from his hair, brushes it off his t-shirt, off his ass. He picks up the blanket and remembers to kick the straw back across the floor. As he puts the blanket back up, he hears something; the clink of a bridle, maybe, and a momentary squeak of a hinge.

There is no breeze.

He flows like shadow out into the night and sees a lean, muscular silhouette heading briskly for the corn. His soul takes wing and he follows.


End file.
